


Vertigo

by bladespark



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fear of Falling, Heavy Angst, Inspired by Music, M/M, Oral Sex, Religious Guilt, Sexual Repression, Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wings, gay issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bladespark/pseuds/bladespark
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have been slowly falling for each other for centuries.  The problem, though, when Crowley finally makes a move, is that Aziraphale knows that falling for Crowley means Falling, for the sex that's all tangled up in the way they love each other is definitely a sin.He's an angel, and he's meant to be above such things, pure and righteous.  But a demon's love may just tempt him in a way nothing else possibly could, and maybe, just maybe, that's worth Falling for.





	Vertigo

**Author's Note:**

> This may be kind of triggering for some people. I'm working through some personal things with this one. Being very, very queer and having been raised very, very religious, is, well... It can do quite a number on one's head and heart both.

Time moves on and time won't be long,  
In time I will fear not the day.  
I'm endlessly knowing that you'll never know  
What I might want you to say.  
-[Kate Rusby, Falling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eogbFwM_Qds)

Crowley’s touch has always felt like a sin.

Aziraphale has tried to pretend otherwise. He’s worked very hard to categorize the way the merest accidental brush of the demon’s fingers against his arm fills him with fire as just one more little bit of faux humanity, one bit of fleshy experience just like any other, but it isn’t. It never has been.

Now, pushed up against a building wall next to where Crowley has parked the Bentley, with the demon’s hands fisted in his lapels, Crowley’s lips seem to burn like hellfire against Aziraphale’s, and it’s no longer possible to pretend that this is anything other than what it is.

He almost does it anyway, almost kisses back with heat of his own, almost braces himself against the worse heat, the black-burning fire that will inevitably follow, but in the end he summons the strength to somehow resist temptation and shove Crowley back from him.

“Don’t,” Aziraphale hisses, and Crowley stands there with wounded bafflement in his eyes.

“Angel? I’m sorry. I thought…”

His heart pounding for at least two completely different reasons, Aziraphale lets some of the fear that’s one of them spark into anger and snaps, “You _didn’t_ think, or you wouldn’t have done that.”

“Well forgive me for thinking you might possibly feel anything for a demon,” snarls Crowley, suddenly all sharp edges and prickles.

Aziraphale is torn between snapping right back and soothing the hurt he can see in the demon’s face, even with his dark glasses still on. Finally he says, scrambling madly for some kind of calm, “You obviously don’t understand, Crowley, dear.”

Crowley’s teeth are bared as he replies. “No, I obviously don’t. I thought, after all we went through last week… After all we’ve been through in the last eleven years… Fuck, I thought after all we’ve been through in the last six thousand! I thought there was something there. Guess I was wrong.”

The pain in Crowley wrenches an unintended response from Aziraphale. “You weren’t wrong! But you don’t understand what you’re asking of me!”

“I wasn’t wrong? What the fuck, angel? I’m talking about love. About me falling for you like some kind of idiot. If you felt the same way, you wouldn’t be pushing me off now.”

“I’m talking about falling too, you absolute bloody fool! It’s easy enough for you to commit mortal sins if you want. But you should know better than to ask me to, no matter _what_ I feel! No matter how much I wish I could.” Aziraphale hears his voice crack, and finds there are tears suddenly standing in his eyes. “I do wish I could, believe me I do, but I can’t.”

Crowley is silent for a long moment, then he suddenly pulls his glasses off and stares at Aziraphale. His face is a study in shifting emotions, but confusion comes out on top. “…What?”

“I’ve fallen for you too, you daft demon. But if I do anything about it, I’ll _Fall_. Capital “F” fall. ‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind, it is an abomination.’ You’re not asking me to engage in some amusing little peccadillo, when you kiss me like that, Crowley. You’re asking me to commit a mortal sin. The kind of sin that gets human souls damned to hell. The kind of sin that makes angels fall from grace.”

Crowley’s face is stunned, and there’s different sort of pain writ across it. “I… N-no, I would never ask that of you, angel. But surely it’s not… Surely it can’t be truly that bad. Didn’t G- Weren’t you made to love?”

“To _love_. Not to lust. Don’t tempt me, Crowley. Not with this. You can tempt me with food and wine and even questions, but not with this.”

“Just kissing isn’t going to damn you,” says Crowley, and Aziraphale can’t bear the sincerity in his eyes. “I can’t imagine there being that much harm in a kiss.”

“Do you want to stop at just kissing, then? Kisses only and never anything more after? You know better than that. It wouldn’t stop at kisses. Don’t tempt me, demon.”

“I’m not trying to tempt you.” Crowley holds up his hands in denial, and on one level Aziraphale knows he’s telling the truth. But on another… “I would never try to—”

“You would and you are! Get thee hence, foul fiend,” Aziraphale snaps, and this time it’s not a joke.

“Angel,” tries Crowley again.

“No!” Aziraphale spins away from him and flees, out into the late afternoon light, out into the city, but of course towards doesn’t even matter, it’s away that matters, away from Crowley and his burning, beautiful, damning kisses.

****

Some time later Aziraphale is sitting on a park bench, head in hands. The sun is low, casting long shadows across the park, and the occasional breeze is chill. The angel doesn’t want to go to the bookshop, because Crowley might come looking for him at the bookshop, and he doesn’t know where else to go, so somehow he’s ended up in St. James' Park, watching ducks sailing serenely by.

If only he could capture even the merest fragment of that serenity.

He’s _meant_ to be serene like that. He’s an angel, he’s supposed to be full of heavenly grace and peace and serenity and all that. He’s supposed to say “Fear not!” to mortals who quake at a glimpse of heaven. He’s not supposed to be full of churning terror himself.

The feel of Crowley’s lips against his is seared into his mind. He can’t shake it. He can’t shake the terrible, dizzying vertigo that holds him fast, the horrible fear of falling. He will, he knows he will, if he kisses Crowley back. Maybe not in that instant, but other things would come after kisses, and eventually he would Fall.

Yet he wants those things. He wants the kisses. He wants the searing flame of Crowley’s lips against him, the hellfire burn of their fingers laced together, the brimstone heat of body against body which he has never felt but which he has imagined a thousand times.

The fantasy had been safe for how impossible it was, and then Crowley had kissed him and now nothing is safe, nothing is without fear.

The flip side of his coin of terror: if he is to avoid Falling, he must avoid Crowley. He can never see his best friend ever again, for how can they go back to not kissing, to not touching? How can they?

No, surely, surely it can be put right somehow. Surely there’s a way. Surely he can box all this burning desire back up, contain it, tuck it away somewhere. Surely he can say to Crowley that never mind, he really just doesn’t feel the same way, and can we just be friends, and they can be.

Surely.

His lips still burn, and his eyes burn also, tears in them, and the desire in him is fire and ice at once; need and despair, Heaven and Hell, all a desperate tangle. He bows his head, tears spilling into his lap, and with a shudder he directs a silent prayer upward.

She is not listening, he is sure of that now. His words will not reach Her any more than they did when he used the ritual circle to call. But he prays all the same. _Why, God? Why, Almighty of Heaven, did you make me able to feel these things? I’m an angel. I’m not meant to be like this. I’m meant to serve you. I’m meant to be pure and clean. I’m not meant to want sin. I’m not meant to want evil. Can’t you take it away from me? Can’t you make me as I should be? I’ll give up food if I must, I’ll give up everything, if only I can be free of this sinful need._

“Hey, you alright there?”

Aziraphale looks up to find a young man—young woman? The person has hair shaved to a short stubble and is dressed very mannishly but also has quite dramatic eye makeup on, and this makes Aziraphale somewhat uncertain about which word to land on, despite a quite femininely pointed chin. The young person is standing next to the bench looking concerned, and Aziraphale belatedly realizes that he has let out an audible sob while saying his silent prayer.

“Oh dear. I’m rather not alright, I suppose.”

“Aww. Man, I’m sorry.”

“Sam! Hey, Sam!” There is a little cluster of other young people nearby, a group to which the one who’s still hovering beside him apparently belongs. “Stop bothering strangers,” says one of them, another rather indistinctly sexed person with very long reddish hair and shades that remind Aziraphale heart-stoppingly of Crowley. They’re nothing like any of Crowley’s shades, but just the fact of them is enough right now.

“Just a minute,” Sam calls back, and then he (she?) puts a tentative hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “If you want to talk about it, I’m not actually going anywhere important. I can stay a minute. Or I can go if they’re right and I’m bothering you?”

“I don’t know. I just… I… What do you do when you want evil? When your deepest heart’s desire is sinful?”

There’s a smile and a shake of the head from Sam, and they say, “I don’t believe in sin. If I did, heart’s desires wouldn’t be sinful. People don’t really want evil things. Nobody’s heart’s desire is like…baby-kicking or something.”

Aziraphale blinks up at Sam. “But… But what I want _is_ evil. It’s a sin, I know it’s a sin.”

“It’s your heart’s desire. You refuse to reach out to get that, that’d be a sin too, I think. _More_ of a sin.” The young person’s narrow chin is stubborn, assured. Aziraphale doesn’t know how they can be so certain. “You gotta grab your heart’s desire if you can. Yolo, you know?”

Aziraphale blinks at the unfamiliar term. “Yolo?”

“You only live once. Better to live than to just hang around existing.”

“Oh.” _Oh._ Something about that is like a stab to the heart, but it’s almost good, the blade is a scalpel, cutting away something sick and fearful, leaving something cleaner, purer, behind. Six thousand years of hanging around existing, and what has he ever done with that? Fumbled his way into not actually preventing the apocalypse at all, since Crowley was the only one of the two of them who’d done anything useful, and Adam and his friends had done all the _actual_ Apocalypse-preventing.

There is more shouting from the little cluster of people, who are walking away, and Sam says, “Gotta go, but seriously, if you’re lucky enough to know what your heart’s desire is, you should grab it with both hands. What’s the worst that could happen?”

_I Fall_ , thinks Aziraphale at their retreating back, watching them wave to their friends and join the little group, melding seamlessly into a tangle of cheerful youth. _I Fall, the way Crowley already Fell. And then we’ll both be demons, and is that really so bad? He’s lived with it all this time. And…_ The thought is another scalpel cut, but the blade’s cleansing is followed by a heat, a hope, a daring thrill. _And demons can commit mortals sins all they like. They’re supposed to, even._

All doubt is suddenly gone. That too has been cut away. All that remains is an iron-hard certainty and a faint coil of fear at the base of his spine that doesn’t matter at all because to _Hell_ with it, literally. If he can’t love Crowley and stay an angel, then it’s time to become a demon.

****

The Bentley is not parked at Crowley’s flat, and Aziraphale feels almost irrationally annoyed at this. He’s arrived at certainty at long last, and now Crowley isn’t here to direct that certainty at? The next place he tries, though, is his own bookstore, and the sleek, dark, familiar shape is at the curb in front of it, sending a wave of relief through Aziraphale.

There’s a little trepidation with it, he’s braced for the fire that will sear his wings black, and is almost surprised it hasn’t arrived already, given how fully he’s committed himself to his sin, but mostly all he feels is determination.

The sign says closed, but the door swings open at his touch, and he’s hardly set foot inside when Crowley is there, looking as if he wants to fling himself on Aziraphale and hold him tight, but stopping his forward rush at the last second. “Angel…”

“Crowley. Forgive me, I’ve been a right idiot.”

“I’m the one who’s been an idiot, angel. I’m not used to needing to worry about sinning. I didn’t think…”

“It’s fine, it’s all fine. It will all be fine, I promise.”

Crowley looks at him in puzzlement, and Aziraphale smiles, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. He’s felt it before and denied it every time, but now he can welcome it openly for what it is: love. He loves Crowley. And he lusts too. There’s a different sort of warmth a little bit south of the one in his chest. The two are all twisted up together in him and for centuries that’s been a terrible pain but now it’s not, It’s just not; the two feelings flowing together naturally, and he steps forward, swiftly, easy—and how is Falling this easy?—and kisses Crowley.

For one long, glorious moment Crowley kisses back, their lips meshing, bodies close, the demon’s hands settling on Aziraphale’s hips and tugging him even closer. Then with a low cry of denial Crowley pulls back. “Aziraphale! What are you doing?”

“Falling for you,” says Aziraphale, gently, firmly.

“I… But… I can’t ask you… You don’t have to…” Crowley flails his hands about, his face a study in distress and confusion. Aziraphale only feels even more peaceful, even more sure, to see it.

“I know you’re not asking. I’m offering.”

“ _Aziraphale._ ” Crowley’s voice is anguished. “Please, don’t. Please. I’ll go away, I’ll leave you be forever. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

Aziraphale reaches out and captures Crowley’s cheek, cupping it in his hand. He feels the demon trembling. “It would be far worse torment to be parted from you, Crowley. I’ve been a fool to ever fear Falling. I’ve been a fool to worry so much about sin, and try to pretend I don’t love you. I do love you, very much.”

“But you don’t know what it’s like!”

“Then tell me. What is it like?”

“It—” Crowley cuts himself off with a shudder. Aziraphale knows the way Crowley tries to avoid things, to slither around things, to do anything but face things he doesn’t like. He probably hasn’t thought about his Fall very often.

Aziraphale strokes his cheek, still so strangely calm, so strangely certain. “Tell me,” he says softly.

Crowley swallows hard, still trembling. “The wings hurt. I felt every feather, and I know that’s irrational, but I did. But that was the easy part. The grace was just torn out of me. It doesn’t leak out or fade away, it’s pulled out by the root. My soul torn apart. Hell is full of continual torments, and I’ve managed to catch a few of them over all these years, but none of them were ever like that. They were easy, after that. It’s… It’s the worst thing I’ve ever felt except…” He stops suddenly.

“Except?” asks Aziraphale, and somehow he knows what the answer will be, his own heart tells him what it must be. He loves Crowley, and is willing to feel that pain rather than the worse pain of losing him, so…

“When I thought I’d lost you,” whispers the demon. “When the bookshop was burning and there was no sense of your soul in all the world and you were just _gone_. I thought I’d never see you ever again.”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale gently. “So you see? How can I chose that pain for both of us? I love you, Crowley. I want you. To h-hell with anything and everything else.” He stumbles over the curse, but he means it as sincerely as he’s ever meant anything.

“You don’t know that… You can’t be sure that it’s worth… That _I’m_ worth…” Crowley is nearly in tears behind his glasses. Aziraphale can’t see it, but he can hear it in his voice. He can’t resist plucking the shades from Crowley’s face, staring into the demon’s suddenly shocked yet still tearful eyes.

“You are worth _everything_. And I can. I know what I want. Stop trying to talk me out of it.”

“But I don’t want you to suffer,” says Crowley softly, almost brokenly. “Please…”

“Would you have thanked God if you’d been forced to give up your questions for your own good, rather than Fall? Would you be glad if somebody had taken them from you to save you the pain? I _know_ what I want, Crowley, my dearest demon, and what I want is _you_. I know you want it too, you can’t pretend otherwise.” Then he can hold back no longer, he lunges forward, lips meeting Crowley’s again, arms going tight around him, the kiss hungry, demanding.

Crowley groans and responds. His whole body is trembling now, but his tongue meets the demands of Aziraphale’s tongue as he pushes it into the demon’s mouth, and his arms are around Aziraphale’s waist and their bodies are tight together and this time he doesn’t pull back, he just kisses and kisses, hungrily, desperately, and Aziraphale kisses him the same way, going on and on and on until finally the need for more than kisses is enough to make him break it off. “Crowley… Oh Crowley, my love,” he moans, fumbling for the words, finding nothing but, “I want you, I want _more_ …”

“Yes. Fuck yes. I’ll show you. I’ll give you. Anything you want, angel.”

“You,” says Aziraphale, clinging to Crowley tightly.

“Bed, something,” mutters Crowley, and Aziraphale realizes he’s panting desperately. They both are, taking fast, shivering breaths, barely gasping out their words in between.

“Don’t have a bed. Couch in the back room.”

“Right.” Crowley somehow peels himself from Aziraphale’s embrace, but his hand finds the angel’s, clings to it, draws Aziraphale after him, and they nearly run to the back room and the tatty old couch there. Crowley’s other hand is undoing shirt buttons as he goes. When they reach the couch Crowley drops Aziraphale’s hand for a moment to shed shirt, vest, and jacket entirely in one single motion, leaving his chest bare. Aziraphale feels his mouth go dry, his heart stopping in his chest for a moment, then thudding away like anything as Crowley turns those long, clever fingers on him, starting with his bowtie, which is tossed carelessly on the floor and for all that Aziraphale has carefully preserved it and other such favored items of clothing for decades or more he cares not one single whit for that, or the jacket that follows it, or even the very nice waistcoat, or the shirt beneath for that matter.

This amount of undress is apparently too much for Crowley, and Aziraphale is suddenly being kissed again. He kisses back with with an all-new heat running through him at the feeling of skin against skin, the lean firmness of Crowley’s chest pressing to the rather softer nature of his own, and it’s beyond words. His fingers explore Crowley’s skin, feel the tingle at his shoulderblades where his wings are immaterially present, and work their way up into his hair, daring something Aziraphale has always wanted to do, though it’s almost a shame how short it is right now, he can remember wanting desperately to touch the long, careless curls Crowley’s so often worn.

Even short it’s still wonderful, the softness of it sliding around Aziraphale’s fingers. When Crowley moans into the kiss and deepens it, the angel can’t help but grip tighter, as if holding on for dear life, and is surprised by the gasp and shudder that goes through Crowley as he does.

“Is that too much?” he murmurs, not so much breaking the kiss as speaking against Crowley’s lips.

“No, the opposite,” pants the demon.

Feeling a sudden spark of something very like mischief, Aziraphale can’t resist the urge to twist his fingers in Crowley’s hair. “Not enough, then?” he says, but he’s startled all over again at the breathy, helpless sound Crowley makes.

So.

It’s like that.

Aziraphale isn’t experienced, but he’s well-read, and his mind immediately goes down a particular track. He twists his hand harder in Crowley’s hair, and feels a shiver go through him at the raw, almost desperate whimper of pure _need_ that the demon gives as Aziraphale hurts him.

“Oh fuck,” moans Crowley.

“That sounds wonderful,” says Aziraphale. “But you’ll have to show me…”

“Yes, of course, definitely,” babbles Crowley, and before Aziraphale can have another thought the demon has gone to his knees and is undoing Aziraphale’s belt. He pulls Aziraphale’s trousers down swiftly, taking his pants with them, and there’s a moment of awkwardness while the angel tries to toe out of his shoes so he can step out of everything but nearly falls over with his trousers tangled around his ankles. He steadies himself with his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley holds very, very still, supporting him.

Aziraphale means to get his socks off too, but next thing he knows Crowley has grabbed him by the hips and nearly shoved him down into the couch. The demon is still kneeling, still wearing his own pants and shoes, but that doesn’t matter at all as he nudges Aziraphale’s legs apart, fingers sliding up the angel’s thick thighs, leaving burning hot trails behind them. Aziraphale thinks of hellfire again, but defiantly, daring it to come and burn him. Surely the Fall will begin any moment now? But it doesn’t come then, not even when Crowley’s fingers reach the inner crease of Aziraphale’s thighs and keep going, cupping his balls for a moment, kneading, startling a groan from him, then brushing delicately at the already rock-hard cock above them.

“Oh, Crowley,” he moans, and his hands instinctively find their way to Crowley’s head, tangling in his hair again. Crowley moans too and dips his head, responding to the pressure Aziraphale hadn’t really meant to apply, nuzzling along the aching length of him. Aziraphale gasps, pleasure shocking through him like fire, and it’s not like hellfire at all, it’s more like Heaven’s grace, for it’s _wonderful_.

Then it gets better, oh sweet Somebody, how can it get any better? But it does as Crowley licks him. Aziraphale’s fingers are fisted firmly in the demon’s hair and part of Aziraphale knows it must be hurting him but he can’t help himself, he can’t care, and anyhow Crowley is making the best sounds himself, soft, muffled, needy things as he licks and laps at Aziraphale and it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever heard, ever seen, looking down at Crowley as he takes the angel’s cock into his mouth and oh fuck, that’s beyond amazing.

“F-fuck, Crowley,” he manages to somehow stammer. “I’m not going to last very long…”

Crowley lifts his head just long enough to say, “Good,” and then dives back down, sinking deep this time, somehow taking Aziraphale’s entire cock down his throat. The angel can feel that, can feel the way Crowley is swallowing at him, the demon’s clever, wonderful, amazing tongue working along his entire length from base to tip and it’s beyond good, it’s too much, he can’t hold back, with a cry of, “Oh, _Crowley!_ ” he comes hard.

He half-expects Crowley to draw back. Certain things he’s read suggests that the taste of it tends to be bad. Perhaps his isn’t that bad. Perhaps Crowley doesn’t care. Either way the demon stays down, swallowing every drop that pumps out into his throat as spasms of bliss shake Aziraphale over and over and over until finally the pure physical pleasure slides down into a puddle of utter relaxation and he lets out a long, long sigh.

Deep within he is still braced for his Fall, and surely this will cause it, now that the moment is done, the sinful sex is had, very much past tense, but still there is nothing.

Crowley lifts his head and swallows, then lets out a sigh of his own. “I have wanted to do that since sometime around the founding of Rome,” he says, and this makes Aziraphale blush furiously, but he doesn’t quite mind.

Then Crowley’s eyes come back into focus and he looks up at Aziraphale, frowning faintly. “No Falling,” he says.

“No. No Falling.” Feeling a strange impulse, Aziraphale manifests his wings, but they are indeed as white as ever.

“Huh,” says Crowley. “That’s good, then. I can just give you blowjobs, and it’ll be fine. Guess that doesn’t qualify as lying with me ‘like a woman’ or however it goes?”

“I…” Aziraphale swallows hard. The thought is tempting, ironically. Part of him says that this would be enough, this thing he’s felt would be enough for eternity. But… “No,” he says softly, gently, and he licks his lips as he looks down at the beautiful, attractive, astonishingly erotic demon still kneeling at his feet. “I want more,” Aziraphale says, and he sees Crowley’s eyes widen, pupils dilating, cheeks flushing.

“Angel…”

“I want everything,” says Aziraphale, and he recklessly miracles the rest of Crowley’s clothing off.

“Oh!” says the demon softly, startled. Aziraphale pulls him up, and Crowley settles himself on the angel’s lap, straddling him, legs tucking alongside more gracefully than anything so seemingly ungainly ought to. Aziraphale considers putting away his wings, but then Crowley is kissing him again and he decides he doesn’t care.

Fire wakes in him once more and this time he’s intensely aware of his cock hardening, the skin tightening over it as it swells. He’s even more intensely aware of how it’s immediately trapped between their bodies, pressing against where Crowley’s own cock is hard and hot against his stomach. He shivers with it and kisses Crowley so fiercely that he knows he’s leaving bruised lips, even lips cut on teeth perhaps, but he still doesn’t care, he just wants more.

Crowley seems to agree, for his grinds himself against Aziraphale, panting hard. “Ah… Angel… I want you so much,” he groans.

“Yes. Tell me. Tell me what to do. Tell me how to give myself to you.”

“No, I want you to take me. Please,” says Crowley, voice thick with desire.

“Oh. Oh yes, of course, yes.” Aziraphale is incoherent with it, mind flooded with irrational responses at the very thought. Taking Crowley as his own… _Yes_. There is not enough “yes” in all the universe for how “yes” that idea is.

Crowley grinds against Aziraphale’s cock again, a slow undulation of his hips, serpentine, sexual, amazing, but then he climbs off of Aziraphale, who tips his head in puzzlement. Puzzlement vanishes when Crowley positions himself on the couch so that he’s leaning over the arm, very much presenting himself to Aziraphale, who can’t help but immediately run his hands over Crowley’s ass, squeezing and groping and then slipping his fingers between the cheeks to fondle. Crowley makes a soft sound of pleasure that slides up into a high, needy gasp at the fondling.

“Angel! Oh fuck, please!”

“Yes,” gasps Aziraphale again and he is suddenly on top of Crowley, bent over him, wings half spread like a canopy above them both, his cock pushing between the demon’s cheeks, rubbing there. Aziraphale wills something, feeling even more transgressive than he would have thought possible, tensed for impending doom, or for nothing at all, for he’s done pointless miracles and petty miracles and frivolous miracles, but now he’s doing a _sinful_ miracle, but it doesn’t seem to matter, for Crowley gasps and is suddenly slick where Aziraphale’s cock prods at him, and his cock is slick with it too, slick and hot and needy, pushing at the demon, Aziraphale shifting and shifting until finally he manages to find the angle that’s just right and he sinks in.

“Oh fuck, angel!” Crowley’s wings are suddenly out too, one draping awkwardly over the couch and the other trailing down to the floor. Aziraphale only just barely notices, for most of his mind is ablaze with the demon’s tight heat around him, and he sinks in, just aware enough to think to go slowly, but still lost in it as that wonderful warmth swallows him up to the hilt.

“Crowley… Fuck, yes. Fuck. Oh, _Crowley_.” Somehow the profanity is the only thing he can say. He will _not_ swear by God in this moment, but by Crowley, and by the act they’re doing, both those are somehow the right thing to say. 

They rest together, panting, wings trembling, and then Crowley says, “Take me, angel. Make me yours. Claim me, use me, _please_.”

Aziraphale can’t think to go slowly anymore, all he knows is that the need in Crowley’s voice and the need singing in the veins of his own corporeal shell have merged into one irresistible force, and he responds to it by pulling his hips back and then thrusting in, hard, deep. Crowley’s wings snap fully open, his back arching, his head going back. “Fuck! Yes!”

The “yes” is just enough to let Aziraphale know that he hasn’t hurt his demon, his love, so he does it again, because it is the only thing in the world now, the feeling of Crowley under him and around him, the sound of the demon’s moans and cries, the fluttering of jet black wings, and his own—still white despite what he’s even now doing—trembling just as much as he bucks his hips faster and faster and faster, setting a frantic, primal, almost brutal pace that has Crowley gripping the couch arm and writhing under him, but he still says, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, oh Aziraphale, _yes!_ ”

Aziraphale can feel Crowley suddenly spasming around his cock, clenching and shuddering, his wings stretched wide as he comes with stunning intensity, and it’s so much, it’s so good, it has him on the edge himself. He thrusts again, and again, and on the third stroke he comes too, sinking deep into Crowley as hot seed spurts from his cock, feeling the demon beneath him, claiming him as Crowley had begged him to do.

Then it’s over, wings slowly folding in, bodies collapsing to the couch completely, breath rapid at first but gradually slowing. They rest together for a long time, and when Aziraphale can do something like think again, his first thought is that his wings are still white.

He withdraws from Crowley, and almost absently miracles away the mess on them both. He can still do silly little miracles. He can do that, miracle something to do with sex, with sin. Crowley could too, but somehow it’s not right, that Aziraphale still can.

He hasn’t Fallen.

“Angel?” says Crowley softly, tenderly, shifting to put his arms around Aziraphale, where he sits in stunned confusion on the couch.

Aziraphale stares over his shoulder at his wings, feeling strangely lost, suddenly. He sinned. He disobeyed. He gave in to lust, he was tempted and didn’t resist, he chose a demon over the command of God, and yet the feathers are still there, still white.

He swallows hard, feelings churning.

“Angel? You didn’t…”

“Fall,” says Aziraphale flatly, and suddenly all the confusion flashes into rage. “I didn’t Fall. It was a lie. God let me—let people!—believe a _lie_. It’s not a mortal sin. It’s not instantly damning. It’s a _fucking lie_.” He hisses out those last two words between clenched teeth, and he is clenching them because he is suddenly holding back the urge to tear out his feathers, just pull every last traitorously white one of them and scatter them, burn them himself, do something, anything, other than just sit here still being holy when the source of all that holiness had lied to him.

“Maybe there isn’t any God at all! Maybe _everything_ is a lie and Heaven is nothing but a bunch of corporate bullies and Hell is even worse and Earth is all there even is!” He knows this is irrational even as he says it. Long ago he knew God himself, all the angels did, in those days. But it would be easier to think there is no God than that he was betrayed, lied to, deceived.

“Angel,” says Crowley again, softly, still holding him tight.

Anger turns to heartbreak, instantly transmuted, and Aziraphale buries his face against Crowley’s shoulder, clinging to him, eyes suddenly full of tears. Crowley just squeezes him tighter as Aziraphale sobs into his shoulder. The whole world seems to crumble around him, everything he ever thought he knew about right and wrong shattering, and not just the world outside, but the world within him, everything he ever thought he _was_ , just broken all to little pieces. If this is wrong, what else is? If six thousand years of resisting sin was futile, for it wasn’t a sin at all, what other things aren’t sins either? Or is it a sin after all and God doesn’t even care enough to notice, to make sure an angel Falls when he should? Which is worse, that the foundations are unstable or that the creator of it all isn’t even watching anymore? “I _wish_ there wasn’t any God. I wish there wasn’t any Heaven or Hell or any of it. I wish there wasn’t any Bible, any sin, any evil, any good either. It’s all hopeless, futile, pointless. There’s nothing worth anything anymore.”

“Oh angel… There’s me. I know I’m not much, but whatever else there is, there’s me. I’m here.”

He is, solid and warm and just as he’s always been, but touched with the newness of the carnal thing they’ve just shared, which still fills Aziraphale with a physical glow. He remembers, then, the certainty he found, that Crowley was worth Falling for. Perhaps Crowley is worth not Falling for, too.

“You’re here,” he says, finally lifting his head, tear-stained eyes meeting Crowley’s, finding the amber gold of them full of sorrow and sympathy. “You’re here, and I’m here. The two of us. On our own side, not on anybody else’s.”

“That’s right. The two of us. Always,” says Crowley, and he kisses Aziraphale gently. It’s a bittersweet kiss, for Aziraphale is still half raging and half weeping within, and he knows now that he could have been kissing Crowley all this time, that there was never any reason at all for him not to. Yet the sweetness _is_ there, and as Crowley’s arms and wings both fold him tight, it is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> And here I am falling,  
> Oh why am I falling.  
> Take me to where I belong.  
> I'm standing here falling,  
> Before you falling.  
> If it weren't for your wings I'd be gone.  
> -[Kate Rusby, Falling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eogbFwM_Qds)
> 
> (All songs are Good Omens songs. Even ones that aren't Queen.) 
> 
> If you'd like to see me talk about writing, my works in progress, other creative endeavors, and my life in general, check out [my Dreamwidth blog](https://bladespark.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
> I also have [a Discord server](https://discord.gg/wCQKayx). It's not Good Omens themed, it's for my writing in general, and for my friends to chat. It is an 18+ server, because I like to be able to discuss all my stories there, including the mature ones. Feel free to join if that sounds interesting to you.


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